


a double minded man is inconstant in all his ways

by shinodabear



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Catholicism, Character Study, Gen, Religious Themes & References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-12
Updated: 2011-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-14 16:50:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinodabear/pseuds/shinodabear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-The Final Problem; <i>You have condemned and put to death the Just One, and he resisted you not.</i> James 2:6.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a double minded man is inconstant in all his ways

_Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who have trespassed against us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen._

The words come to him as if he’d never forgotten them. He lets them wash over his mind, repeating them a handful of times, until his mind is calm again. But it’s not calm. He repeats the prayer again, head hung between his knees.

He learnt about the power of these words here, as a boy. Over time, he learnt that it wasn’t the words themselves, so much as it was the voice that delivered them. A soft, soothing lilt could talk tears away and coax all of a person’s sin straight to the surface; a booming roar could bring a grown man to his knees and make him beg forgiveness. He learnt to mask his voice here. His voice changed here, a crackling, embarrassing thing that they all met with at different times so that they could torment one another as they stood in their innocent white robes.

He doesn’t like to think about it; thinking about it achieves nothing. He busies his mind instead.

Jim reaches out and takes hold of the worn leather-bound copy of the Good Book in front of him. He opens to James and plucks out the piece of paper he finds there. A quick scan of the note reveals nothing important – it’s full of sentiment more than anything. He tucks it away just as it was in the book and puts the Bible back in its place. He was expecting something more.

He leans back against the pew, lifting his feet on to the kneeling bench. Why do people come here? For guidance? Forgiveness? No. They come here because they are compelled to; years of being dragged to Sunday service by their parents have created a need to gather here, to approach the doors in a hushed reverence and sit quietly, murmuring and obedient “amen” when Father asks for it. Now they are the ones who drag their little ones to service, week after week; the cycle feeds itself. There are those with true faith, those who truly believe, and that’s fine. But Jim has stared at the dead, frozen faces of the congregation long enough to know that, in today’s post-Wycliffe world with a Bible readily available for any literate soul’s consumption, that it’s something else that keeps them here. Jim thinks that, perhaps, it is the church itself.

From a newborn to a preadolescent, Jim came here every Sunday, Easter, and Christmas. He can recall every person who ever attended a service. This is because they were always the same people, barring the occasional bout of flu or whooping cough. And every single week, they would sit (and stand) in the same seats, year in and year out. They chose their spot. This was Jim’s. He returns here from time to time, at odd times so as to avoid any other soul. He doesn’t want to hear their surprised and overjoyed cries of “Jimmy! You’ve come home, son!”

There is talk of feng shui and ley lines and sacred geometry and other kinds of that new age spiritual nonsense that humans have been touting for hundreds if not thousands of years. In all probability, this church was built atop a Viking or Druid holy site. All the years of concentrated worship created an impression on the particles in the air and – Jim laughs to the best of his ability in this condition. It could be true, who knows. Metaphysics wasn’t his area.

It wasn’t the Church’s either. Still, there was something awe-inspiring about the arc of stone and small panel of colored glass that lined the sides of the building. Beauty, he thought, was the ultimate deceiver. Such pale people, encased in glass that, to the eye, is like water; people caught under the rippling of its silent wrath.

Jim pulls himself forward from the back of the pew in front of him. This isn’t calming him.

 _Hail Mary, full of grace…._ Jim tries, but his mind falters. He doesn’t remember. He runs his hands through his hair. It’s thinning, vanity reminds him. Prematurely graying, too, and he isn’t dyeing it any longer. Last year, when Jim walked though these doors, he’d been on top of the world. He’d found his match and won their first battle; he’d come here proud and at ease.

He needs to clear his head. No. He needs to occupy his thoughts. He stands and walks to the end of the church, near the doors. He sits in the confessional, knowing that the other side is empty. “Father,” he whispers in the dimness. “It’s been too long since my last confession.” There’s a prayer, he remembers, that he is supposed to say. At least, he thinks he is supposed to say one. He’s forgotten so much of the ritual. It wasn’t important any longer, after he left.

“Father, I . . .”

He pictures Father Murphy on the other side, Father Murphy who was always too free with his hands. They would cower when he’d get into the drink. It wasn’t sexual – that’s where everyone’s minds go these days, but they didn’t live it – it was physical. Tim “fell on the altar” and needed crowns for his two front teeth. Joseph broke his wrist by “twisting his robes off the wrong way”. And so on and so forth, but Father Murphy never touched little Jim.

(“There’s the devil in you, boy,” he’d say. And little Jim would blankly look back and utter an obedient, “Yessir” and walk out of the room. He never believed a word that man told him. For that was all Father Murphy was – a man. He wasn’t the Pope or the Book or the word of God. He was a man. Jim saw the man he was, a tiny, pathetic alcoholic whose favor could be bought with flattery and feigned subservience.)

Jim sits up straighter and crosses his legs. “You’d be proud of me, Father. I’ve learned what love is.”

(Father Murphy would cough in that wet way of his, and lean closer to the privacy screen. “Is that so, son?” he would ask.)

“Yes.”

(Father Murphy would no doubt smile. “You didn’t get her in the family way have you, son?” he would ask.)

“No,” Jim laughs.

(Father Murphy would nod to himself. “Good,” he’d grunt. “’Cause that’s what I’d expect from a little bastard like you.” That’s what he would not say, but would convey all the same.)

“Satan loved God, didn’t he, Father? He loved him so much that it consumed him. It turned him against God. That’s what they say, isn’t it?”

(Father Murphy hated theorizing the Word of God. He would quote a passage and Jim would ignore it.)

“Satan and God. They’re working together, you know. It’s a game they play now. Like 'Good Cop, Bad Cop' on a cosmic scale. They’ve really the same agenda. And, underneath all that talk of sinner and saint, there’s love and respect.”

(And Murphy would choke a bit.)

“He was so beautiful, Father.”

(And Jack would straighten, knowing the devil in little Jim too well. He knew that Jim was not talking of Satan or God.)

“He was so beautiful with his skull cracked open and his blood dripping into the water. I pushed him, of course. He let me.”

(Father Murphy would be silent.)

“I could’ve gone to Westminster Abbey, you know. But I came here. You’re supposed to give me sanctuary if I ask, aren’t you? It’s your duty.”

(The son of a bitch would get up and exit his cubicle. He’d walk over to his office and call the police. Jim would be long gone, so far gone before they got to him.)

Would he shoot himself? Take poison? Or would he just run away? Jim’s not sure. He doesn’t need to decide. Father Murphy isn’t in the other cubicle. And he didn’t kill Sherlock. That’s what the papers say, surely. After Sherlock left that clever little note to Johnny Boy, that’s what all the sensational press think. But they won’t find a shred of evidence. They've declared them both dead, but Jim isn't taking his chances.

“He was so beautiful,” Jim whispers, looking up as footfalls announce the arrival of another in front of the open door. “What have you done to him?”

“It’s called a disguise, Jim. Honestly, like you’ve never dyed your hair before.”

“But it’s hideous.” Jim frowns. “You were so pretty with that luscious dark hair. Now you look like a shorn leprechaun.” (Jim won’t say, but he finds the eyeglasses endearing.)

Sherlock smiles at that, moving away down the aisle. Jim hums the Wedding March. He laughs and Sherlock turns. He rolls his eyes good-naturedly and approaches the altar.

“So what did you find?” Jim asks, exiting the confessional and leisurely strolling up one of the side aisles with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Our man’s escaped. Somewhere in Switzerland or Germany. Your contact didn’t have much more.”

“Shame.” Jim tsks.

“You’re not to harm him.”

“Didn’t say I was,” Jim responds, innocent. But of course he isn’t.

“You’re dead, remember? You get into contact with your usual suspects and they’ll tip Mycroft off. He’s monitoring your empire, you know.”

Jim shrugs. “You can’t actually think that he believes you to be dead.”

Sherlock pauses and lowers his chin to his chest. “If anyone would kill me, it’s you.”

Jim smiles, clutching his heart. “That is so sweet of you to say.”

He watches Sherlock take in every detail of the church’s altar. His eyes are the color of the blue glass in the windows. Jim isn’t blind to Sherlock’s faults; he knows the man isn’t innocent enough for him to paint a halo behind his head – but the image of Sherlock depicted in fragments of glass pleases him To have forever, cold and smooth to the touch, to shatter. To cut himself on.

A careful sweep of Sherlock's hand across the altar and Jim can see the question in Sherlock’s eyes: _Why did you come here?_ Jim turns away from him, sliding his hands into his pockets and learning his back against the altar.

“I see little purpose in coming here,” Sherlock comments, as Jim saw he would. “So it must be personal. I didn’t peg you for the praying type.”

Jim neither smiles nor laughs; he frowns at the jovial tone in Sherlock’s voice. “There’s a purpose,” he answers, eventually. Faith. Power It’s all here. But that’s never what he wanted. It feels good. Yes. Yes it does. But that is not why they’re here.

Jim pushes away from his roost and walks slowly over to the door that leads to the rectory. “Come along, dear,” he says as impassive as possible.

“Altar boy,” Sherlock announces as he catches up (It’s easy with those long legs of his.)

“And with what logical reasoning have you deduced that?”

“You wear a saint’s medal. “

“Peeking under my shirt now? Huh. I thought this banter was purely for show.” He pulls a key from his pocket and enters the door the priests have all kept locked out of respect for the great man of their community. Sherlock follows.

“Which is it?”

“Does it matter?”

“It’s a piece of information I haven’t had previously. Anything about you is relevant.”

“Well then,” Jim says, making for the desk. “I enjoy a nice Italian dinner with a red table wine. I am a published scholar. And I can’t swim.”

“Saint Patrick is too obvious.” Sherlock presses, ignoring Jim’s response.

“I gave you a hint, you know,” Jim tells him, because he did.

“A saint to protect against drowning?”

“Nothing so obvious.”

“Then –”

“It doesn’t matter, Sherlock!” Jim shouts. The room is used to such outbursts “It’s just a stupid little charm. Forget it.”

Sherlock purses his lips. Jim can see his mind working. “Sentimental,” Sherlock says. Jim ignores him.

(Father Murphy would kill him if he found Jim in his office like this. Little did Father Murphy know, Jim came in here all the time. Church was boring. The hidden secrets behind the false compartment in his lower right hand drawer, however, were not. )

Jim uses a second key to open the drawer. He takes out the false backing with ease.

(After Murphy’s death, Jim started hiding things here, little things that, over the years, could add up to big things. No one would ever think to look here.)

“When did you move from Dublin?”

“When Ma told us to.”

“And your father?”

Jim looks up. “Whatever it is you are trying to do, Sherlock, stop it.”

But Jim knows what Sherlock is trying to do. Up to this point, they’ve only known each other from a business perspective. Moriarty had been a name, then a face, then an adversary. He’d been the antagonist to Sherlock’s antihero protagonist. The only things Sherlock had known about him were what Jim had let be known. Here, in the church, this is little Jimmy. This is a man who isn’t acting out a plot on Sherlock’s life, but is running alongside him. This is Jim at his most honest.

The church isn’t Jim’s house of worship. It’s a house of contemplation, of inner sanctum. It’s a building where he could always be alone, at the right time, with the right countenance. This is where Jim is himself. It’s his soul, if he had one. And he’s let Sherlock in.

The good detective probably doesn’t even recognize him.

Jim reaches his hand into the darkness of the drawer and feels nothing but a slip of paper. His heart drops. It’s gone. It’s all gone. He pulls the note from its confines and opens it. It’s a great deal more angry than the last note he was left.

 _Dearest Jim,_ it said. _I hope you’re happy. I can’t protect you. Rather, I won’t protect you. I told you one day that you would go too far and this, little brother, is too far. Mycroft Holmes is a friend of mine, as you know. I don’t like to see him cry; it’s unnatural. I’ve told him everything. May God have mercy on your soul._

(Father Murphy loved to lecture little Jimmy on Jacob and Esau. He thought it would scare the younger twin into submission, thought it would make him repent. But Jimmy saw that quarrelling brothers were a common theme in the Book. He saw that they were just stories.)

Tom had always been a good brother. He was older by three minutes and couldn't appear any different that mousy little Jimmy with his frizzy red hair and jovial grin. No one suspected that Thomas was smarter than James and even more wicked. No one, not even Jim.

Jim closes his eyes and crumples the note. When he opens them, he tosses the paper into the bin and breathes in a deep, centering breath. “My brother gave it to me,” he speaks in a calm and even tone, “after I’d left university.” He runs his hand along the chain and pulls the St. Hubert medal out from beneath his clothes. He kisses the visage. “He wanted to remind me of the life I could have led had I not chosen to weave my web. But you know what?” Jim smiles. “This was so much more fun than any lecture hall.”

He walks out of the room, not bothering to close the door behind him. He comforts himself with more words and he makes his way to the altar and kneels before the cross. In the quiet of the church, at the hour of sunrise, Jim listens to the echoes of his thoughts and they tell him: Satan loved God. And God loved Satan. But it couldn’t end any other way. It’s just a story, but every story is a variation on a theme.

He makes the sign of the cross and lowers his head. The words come to him now: _Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with three. Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen_.

Jim rises and walks solemnly up the aisle and out into the sunlight where, upon the steps, he greets Mycroft Holmes with a grin. He opens his arms and doesn’t feel the second bullet.


End file.
